


A Blessing and a Curse

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Dubious Consent, Forced Marriage, M/M, Witnessed Consummation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 08:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9114367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: As Bruce's oldest heir, Dick's always known that someday he was going to be married off. It comes in the form of a deal worked out between their kingdom, and the neighboring one ruled by the al Ghul family. Bruce to their emperor's daughter, Talia, and Dick to that daughter's only son and the heir to the neighboring kingdom, Damian. Their kingdom's culture is strange though, and the peculiarities of their rituals are a lot to remember.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lacemonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacemonster/gifts).



> Welcome! This is my DickDami Secret Santa project, for lacemonster! The prompt was Desert, and this is... not exactly what I set out to write but this is what it came out as? I hope you enjoy!

Dick always knew he was going to be married off sooner or later. It was one of those unspoken by-products of being taken in by Bruce at such a young age; introduced as a 'son' to all the right people and established as a prince within the year. Black hair, blue eyes, and a vaguely similar enough face that no one was going to question the word of a king. They assumed he was a bastard, born to some woman or another charmed by power, and that's the story that settled. As a result it gave him status, and a certain kind of value that Bruce never talked about, but he was more than smart enough to put together over the years.

As a prince, even a bastard prince, he's a line into Bruce's family. Until or if Bruce names anyone else, he's the heir to the kingdom, and having that kind of power makes him very, _very_ valuable to any other family looking to trade for his hand and the favor of having his name replace their own. It was an inevitability that someone would eventually offer a high enough price to make the trade worth it.

What he's _not_ expecting is for that someone to be a barely of age _son_ of one of Bruce's most intense rivals.

Damian al Ghul; a young prince himself, and heir to the al Ghul empire, not unlike him. And Damian's not coming to Bruce's kingdom, he's going to Ra's'. It strikes him the day after he's informed of the deal that he's not the groom in this scenario, he's the bride. _He's_ the one being transplanted from his home and taken into another family, to bind the two lines together and create peace. It's certainly not what he really wanted, but he bites his tongue and goes along with it in good humor.

It was inevitable, and his marriage is part of one hell of a deal. He's being married off to Damian, Talia al Ghul — Ra's' only surviving daughter — is being similarly sold to Bruce himself, and there's a mountain of smaller trade deals and pacts and alliances above those founding bricks. Even if this marriage isn't his ideal fantasy for how he'd like it to go — and realistically, he knew that was always going to be the case — he can't possibly risk sweeping the legs out from under the whole thing by complaining. They've been hovering at the edges of a war with the al Ghul family for decades; this could stop all of it.

So he packs what's his, says his goodbyes to kitchen staff and his siblings alike, and sets off with Bruce towards the arranged, midway palace that will serve as host for the two marriages, and the finalization of the deal.

Which is how he finds himself sitting at a low table, at the opposite end of it from his intended husband because, according to protocol, they’re not to socialize until tomorrow night when their wedding is scheduled. Tonight is for Bruce and Talia, and it’s… strange. Foreign to him, even though he can see the same core concepts in the rituals. A part of him is definitely nervous, knowing that he’s going to be expected to do all of these same things tomorrow, and he’s under no illusions that he’ll be playing Bruce’s role.

On the plus side, the glimpses of Damian he catches as the night wears on tell him that Damian is, arguably, probably as nervous as he is. Not that it’s obvious, but his intended is stiff and straight, watching and primarily silent despite the celebration. Damian’s tall, with a head of short black hair and darkened skin the same shade as Talia, though his eyes are a clear blue that doesn’t match any of his other family members. He’s clearly just into adulthood, but the lines of his face have only a faint trace of youthfulness to them, and he’s… Well, he’s handsome. Lean, but the muscles in his partially bare arms prove that he’s a long ways from weak.

Eventually the celebration draws to a close, and even with the fact that he’s tired, he doesn’t quite miss the anticipation in the air as Bruce draws Talia to her feet, and the two of them head towards the back of the room. Followed by others. He can’t quite contain the flush that warms his cheeks at the reminder that this culture has _witnessed_ consummation.

It could be worse (at first, he was afraid that meant that _Bruce_ had to be there); the matrons seem kind enough, if distant. He hasn’t really had an opportunity to talk to any of them, since he’s spent the whole celebration sitting at Bruce’s left hand, distanced from basically everyone else. The table ends with him, so apart from the servants that have delivered courses and refilled drinks his only choice of conversation has been Bruce himself.

He’s been maybe more than a little bored, but he knows how to not show boredom; essential skill for a prince.

Damian gets to his feet, murmuring something he can’t make out to Ra’s and then striding away. The celebration seems to be breaking apart, and he’s kind of glad for that since it apparently means that he’s _not_ required to stay and wait for Bruce to be… finished. Thank god for that.

Before he can figure out exactly how to excuse himself Ra’s turns to him, smiling in a slightly oily way that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Your company has been a delight, Richard.” Which is impressive considering he definitely hasn’t actually talked to Ra’s at all. “Why don’t we walk back to your rooms together? I’d like to get to know my future son-in-law a little bit better before it becomes official. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He smiles, shifting back from the table. “Of course. As you wish, Emperor.”

It’s not like he can _refuse_ , not with the impending treaty hanging over all their heads. Nothing can jeopardize this.

Ra’s is more graceful about standing from the table than he is, but his legs are only complaining a little bit about him sitting still for so long, so that’s a small victory. It’s nothing a bit of walking won’t fix, and that’s pretty much exactly what he’s signed up for. Although he has doubts that it’s going to be a pleasant walk; decades of tension don’t just vanish overnight, and Ra’s… unnerves him, a little. Not quite to the level of thinking that he might get his throat slit, but not real far away from that either.

"Please, with me." Ra's links an arm through his, which is more than a little strange considering he's definitely _not_ a woman and doesn't need leading, and pulls him towards one of the exits to the hall. He still can't actually protest, not even if Bruce were there to back him up. "So, you know your role tomorrow?"

"Yes," he answers, trying to seem a little more confident than he is. "I've been coached; I know the steps."

“Good, because you know a mistake at this stage could prove disastrous.” Another oily smile, and a maybe-unintentional tug at his arm that pulls him just a tiny bit off balance. “I would _hope_ that you do not slip up; I know our ways can be confusing to those from other lands.”

“I—”

“But then,” Ra’s continues, talking right over him, “if your land cannot concede for once, and do things _our_ way for just this one occasion, I suppose that could be taken as a sign that this alliance is ill-fated anyway. A shame, that.”

He swallows, trying not to let any of the nerves building in his stomach show. “I don’t have any intention of slipping up tomorrow,” he says, quiet and as firm as he can make it. Then, because the question starts to slide up his throat anyway, he asks, “Is it so important that Damian and I are married? I’d think that Bruce and Talia would be the more important pair, and they’ve already gone through with it.”

“Do you think one invalidates the other?”

“No, but—”

“It _is_ important, Richard,” Ra’s says, interrupting him again. “Both marriages were part of our deal, so both marriages must go through if the rest is to be sealed as well. If your marriage does not proceed as expected, the matrons will declare your father’s invalid, and all of you can go back to your barbarian country having earned nothing.” Ra’s tugs harshly at his arm, this time enough to make him stagger a step before he regains his footing. Then he’s pulled forward and swung partially around to face Ra’s, as his arm is let go.

He grits his teeth, straightening up, and opens his mouth to demand to know what Ra’s thinks he’s doing, but—

“Given that, I imagine you’ll be very careful to follow the ceremonial procedures to the letter. After all, _you_ would not want to be responsible for this entire deal falling apart, would you? Think of the shame.” His stomach feels tight, and Ra’s’ smile widens just a touch before he adds, still just as smooth, “Rest well, Richard. The matrons will be by tomorrow to prepare you for the night. Peaceful dreams.”

Ra’s turns and leaves without another word, or even a moment in which he could respond or do _anything_. He just stares, caught somewhere between frightened and worried and unable to make his tongue do anything useful.

Finally, after Ra’s is out of view, he manages to turn around and confirm that yes, he really is outside the guest quarters that he was assigned for his visit. At least until he’s actually married and shares whatever room Damian is in. Well, even if Ra’s did a very good job of making him nervous about something he was sure he had down, at least he was good enough to actually lead him to the right rooms. He’s not positive that Ra’s wouldn’t lead him to the wrong place just to make him look like a fool. He hasn’t exactly had time to familiarize himself with the layout of this particular palace yet; he would have been stuck wandering around until he found an area he recognized.

He breathes out, and then heads into his rooms. Strangeness aside, Ra’s was right; he should get some rest before tomorrow.

* * *

The matrons clean him maybe more thoroughly than he’s ever been cleaned (and they have _no_ shame), and more than just his cheeks end up cherry-red by the time they’re done with that. He’s released long enough to eat a quick lunch, and then they take possession once again and he gives into being manhandled like an especially large doll for the rest of the day.

The robes they put him in drape more — and yet are somehow more confining — than anything he would have worn at home, but he can’t deny that they’re exquisite. Patterned blue and black with silver embroidery, and the bat emblem of the Wayne family spread across his back, shoulder to shoulder. He wonders, since he has little else to do, if Bruce had this made, or if Ra’s’ seamstresses did it. It certainly matches the style of what he’s seen Ra’s and his nobles wearing, so Bruce would have had to hire some foreign people if he made it, and he doesn’t remember anyone like that in the castle recently.

He's not real fond of the rest of the little details they push on him, but he doesn't argue beyond grimacing a little. (They're not actually talking _to_ him anyway, so it's not like they'd listen even if he said anything.)

His nails end up painted a dark blue, matching the darker bits of his robes, which is a _weird_ sensation. They paint something onto the edges of his eyelids which feels utterly bizarre, but they seem pleased by whatever the effect is so he just tries not to blink too much at the feeling and definitely not to reach up and rub at it. He doesn't need their warnings to know that that's a bad idea. He's even less fond of whatever it is that they layer over his lips, but at least when they finally let him look in a mirror he doesn't look _too_ much like a woman.

The black edges to his eyes make them look a lot bigger than he's used to, bring the color of them out in stark contrast, and — thank god — whatever it is that's on his lips isn't the kind of color that he's seen on the women in the palace. It's a bit of a shine, a slight wet look, but the color is only barely recognizable as not natural. And then they move onto draping him in jewelry, and _alright_ , that's kind of cool and kind of sucks at the same time.

The bracelets are delicate, silver and gold things that he feels like he's going to snap, and they hang an earring from his left ear with a clasp that _pinches_ enough to sting every time he moves his head enough to set it swinging. He gets anklets too, and an ornate, twisted silver necklace that hugs close to his neck, the sapphire on it resting in the hollow of his throat. The necklace feels a bit too close for comfort, especially among people he's not entirely sure he can trust, but he's _pretty_ sure that the silver will give before his neck dies, so he brushes aside the wariness and just lets the matrons work.

Until, eventually, they seem to be finished with him. The last pieces are a silver headpiece that rests another of those too-big feelings sapphires on his forehead, and a veil that covers his face. It also dims the whole world to be slightly black-tinted, but he grits his teeth behind it forces himself not to argue. Not his culture; not his rituals.

They pull him to his feet, and _apparently_ it's time, because then they're pushing him to the door with firm hands and out into the corridor, where Bruce is waiting. Alone.

They bustle off in a group, chattering amongst themselves, as Bruce raises one eyebrow in slow incredulity. He takes a sharp breath in, steps forward, and looks right up at Bruce through the veil as he sticks out an arm. Probably _way_ less gracefully than anyone expects him to be for this, but right now it's just the two of them and he's going to take as much advantage of that as possible. _Bruce_ , the lucky bastard, has gotten away with wearing something close to what Ra's has. Heavy ornamental robes, but bare of all the decoration and the… extra bits.

"We're expected," he says shortly, shaking his arm a little bit.

Bruce takes it, turning to lead him down the corridor and out towards the main dining area (again). After a few moments he catches a glance down, before Bruce starts, "You look—”

"Not a word," he interrupts. "Not all of us get to be grooms, Bruce."

"Good," Bruce finishes, something almost soft to his tone. "You look good."

He lets out a softer breath, and murmurs, "The paint itches, I don't like not wearing shoes, and the earring pinches. But thanks."

Bruce squeezes his arm for a moment. "I know you wouldn't have chosen this, but thank you for going along with it." There's a brief pause, and then Bruce continues, "This is an important deal we're making. Bringing us away from the brink of a war, and forging peace between our families. Not to mention the trading rights, border negotiations—

He keeps his voice gentle but firm as he interrupts with a, "Bruce, I know. Trust me; I get it. I don't need the lecture." He gives a soft sigh. "I'm going to miss the castle though; Jason, Cassandra… all my siblings. The staff…”

Bruce gives an equally soft chuckle. "You always had a wide view of who could be a friend; I'm sure that you'll settle in quickly here as well. And you can always come home, or we can come to you. I wouldn't leave you alone out here, Dick."

"Thank you." He tightens his grip on Bruce's arm for a moment, sees the entrance to the hall come into view, and takes a deep breath. "Alright; here's hoping I remember everything right."

"If in doubt, I imagine you can stay silent and wait and someone will guide you to do what you need to," Bruce comments, almost beneath his breath.

“Don’t even joke,” he hisses, and then they’re through the door and he pulls a small smile onto his face.

He remembers this part from yesterday, but it feels entirely different to be on this side of it. Bruce had already been standing there — a few paces in front of the head table, with their priest — when Talia had come in, escorted by Ra’s. Now it’s Damian up there, and the passageway between the lines of standing nobles feels like a mile instead of a mere few dozen feet. He represses the urge to swallow again, and takes in a shallow, steadying breath instead. Bruce leads him up to the table and then steps back, and he stands at Damian’s left side to face the priest.

Damian is in much the same style of robe that Bruce was in yesterday, but patterned in green, gold, and black instead. He’s perfectly straight and composed, with cool eyes that he can recognize as a mask, although he doesn’t know what’s underneath it. It’s almost reminiscent of the look Bruce gets when he’s listening to someone he utterly disagrees with, but can’t call an idiot in public, which is probably not a comparison that he needed to make right at this moment.

The priest begins to speak, and he takes another breath and pays attention; he can’t afford to miss cues.

The speech is… long, to put it diplomatically. He remembers that too. He does his absolute best not to fidget during any of it, and not to zone out, and somehow manages to prevail. Finally, the actual cue comes, and he lifts his right hand and holds it up between them, just a moment before Damian’s hand lifts and settles over the top of his. His skin is warm where Damian’s palm is settled against the back of his hand.

“Yes, I do,” Damian says, in answer to the priest’s question about love, and protection, and so on and so forth.

“I do,” he echoes, once the priest is finished repeating the same question to him, with some key word choices that are a little irritatingly subservient but whatever.

The priest lifts a length of red ribbon, and steps forward to wind it around their layered hands in crossed patterns. It’s sturdy enough that they’re going to have to actually untie the knot at the base of his wrist later; he wasn’t expecting that based on how thin the ribbon looks. Of course, that won’t come until he’s spent the whole night with his only useful hand useless. Ra’s’ culture considers it rude to eat with your left hand, which means he’s going to be entirely dependent on Damian to feed him. That’s just awesome, really.

“You’re bound together,” the priest announces, loud enough for the entire room. “You will share one breath, one heart, and one soul until your dying days and then beyond.” A pause, a nod, and the priest grants, “You may remove the veil.”

Damian turns to him, and he follows the guiding pull to face his new husband. One free hand rises, and he closes his eyes for a moment as the veil is pulled off of him and handed off to the priest, so that when his eyes open he gets his first real, up close view of Damian's face without the tint of black.

He's _definitely_ handsome. Clean jawline, cool blue eyes, and skin a darker, burnished color that's utterly unlike his paler skin. Damian's hand slips beneath his chin, raising it to make the angle right, and he goes along with it as he's kissed. Gentle, almost sweet in a way, and fairly brief. Nothing with real fireworks, but then they've still got an audience so that's to be expected.

(Oh _god_ , he doesn't know how he's going to possibly cope when the matrons actually are _watching_ them.)

The thought brings a light flush to his cheeks, and Damian's gaze flicks to it for a moment when he pulls back, though no comment comes. The rush of clapping — mixed with a couple of cheers — would have drowned out any sort of comment anyway, and he turns his head to look at the crowd. It hits him, in that moment, that he's _married_ now. That's a strange, bizarre thing to think about. Just like that.

The floor clears ahead of them, and he remembers the next step in this just in time to not look like an utter idiot when Damian pulls him around by their joined hands and leads him down into the clear section of floor ahead of the musicians. This part is actually more familiar, and there seem to have been concessions made in the nature of all this ritual because the music that starts is a slow, vaguely familiar tune, and he’s _pretty_ sure that the slow dance isn’t a native custom.

Damian's hand rests against his waist, their bound hands by necessity being the raised pair, and he's still not entirely pleased about being put in the 'female' role of all of this but he puts his free hand on Damian's shoulder anyway. The steps are simple enough; this one he knows all the steps of, since Bruce at least made sure that he knew the basic dances of the court. He lets himself sink into it, so he's not paying attention to the crowd, or to the music itself, or really to anything except Damian ahead of him and the warm points of contact.

The song ends before too long, and a faster one starts but — with a small flicker of a smirk — Damian leads him off of the dance floor and up to the head table. They take the two seats in the center this time, with Bruce and Talia to his left, and Ra's to Damian's right. Thank god. He _really_ doesn't want to be sitting next to Damian's grandfather for a whole dinner, not after the threats from last night anyway.

Bruce gives him a small smile when he looks over, and a tiny inclination of his head in what's clearly gratitude. He echoes both things, before he turns back to Damian at the prompting of a small tug to their bound hands.

The first of the nobles is coming up, presenting a gift. A servant kneels ahead of the table, taking the gift and presenting it to them as the noble describes it. Something gold and beautiful and arm-cuff like. Damian is the one to answer, taking the piece and turning it in his free hand before returning it to the servant, who sets it aside behind himself.

“Your gift is well received,” Damian says, with the flicker of a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes — somewhat like Ra’s — and a slight inclination of his head. The noble seems pleased enough by that, and moves on to make room for the next one.

He pastes a smile on his face, his gaze on the people coming to them, and tries _really hard_ not to look like he’s thinking about how hungry he is and when this will be over so he can eat. It’s not particularly hard, honestly. He’s sat through boring court dinners and meetings before, and this time at least there are pretty things to look at and he’s not expected to contribute or know exactly what’s going on.

It works until Damian shifts closer to him, head lowering to breathe into his ear, “If you break this ribbon; you’ll receive half the worth of the gifts and be free of this.”

The next moment he’s pulled away again, is offering some meaningless words of gratitude, and there’s no further explanation of the bit of fact. He blinks, having to fight not to look up at his new husband in surprise, and maybe a bit of shock. Is Damian offering to test him, or because he doesn’t want this marriage either? Does he have any idea what Ra’s has threatened to do if this doesn’t go smoothly? (Well, not threatened in exactly so many words, but come _very_ close and that’s more than enough to read intent.) Even if he was willing to go against what Bruce wants from him, he’s not willing to risk crashing this whole deal down around them because of his own selfishness.

So he tilts up just a bit and, in a pause between the seemingly endless stream of nobles, breathes back, “I’d rather have all of it, but thanks.”

He can feel the way that Damian’s hand clenches down on top of his, which makes him think that Damian was trying to get him to break the ribbon so that he wouldn’t have to do this, but he ignores it. There’s no other option than this, so he’s going to see this through. Period.

Eventually the gifts do stop, and the food arrives. He _almost_ reaches for it, before he remembers that he’s not supposed to use his left hand, which puts him in the awkward position of waiting for Damian to feed him bits, or using their bound hands to do it; his is on the bottom after all. Practicality wins out though, because he’s pretty sure that using his bound hand will be considered rude and clumsy at best, and a fatal flaw at worst. Better not to risk it.

So he smiles, and _keeps_ smiling, as Damian feeds him bits of the food in front of them. Damian doesn’t seem to care all that much about his neatness, so he ends up chasing those long, slender fingers as they retreat to catch them again and get the sauce of crumbs of it off of him before they’d withdrawn too far for him to do anything. He doubts he’ll ever actually wear this robe again, but he doesn’t want to drip anything on it even if he’s not. It’s a stunning piece of craftsmanship.

Luckily the food, and having basically no control over when it gets to him, means that he’s excused from the conversations. Damian is carrying on with his grandfather, in between bites, and Bruce and Talia are involved in their own, quieter discussion, which leaves him free to just watch the people in the room and let himself not pay all that much attention.

It’s not all that different from the night before, honestly, except that he’s less free to entertain himself by eating what’s in front of him and drinking maybe a little bit too much wine. It’s not that bad though, and he knows it’s not going to be _too_ long of a night. The rest of the celebration, and then — he swallows at the thought — the consummation, which will be… a trial, definitely, but probably not that bad. Maybe once things get started he won’t actually mind the audience so much, even if they are a bunch of judging old ladies. It’s not like they haven’t seen him naked before, just this morning; he’ll actually probably be _more_ clothed than before, and they’re not going to be the ones touching him so that’s a bonus.

He looks over at Damian, studying the crease where his jaw meets his throat, and remembering the bits of bare arms that he saw yesterday. Yeah, things could be much worse.

They get through dinner, dessert, and a couple midway speeches from Ra’s and Bruce that boil down to well-wishes and looking forward to the peace deal, and then it’s time. A hush falls, and Damian pulls him to his feet. His legs are sore again — he’ll need to figure out a way to sit here for extended periods of time without his knees complaining — but he pushes through regardless, _not_ meeting Bruce’s gaze because he really doesn’t need the reminder that Bruce knows exactly what he’s about to go do.

Damian leads him towards the back of the room, and he can hear the matrons following so he takes a deep breath and pushes away the nerves. He’s not a virgin by any means, so it’s not like this is totally unfamiliar. He can let Damian do what he needs to, and focus on ignoring the idea that anyone else is going to bear witness. Not a problem, really.

The door at the back of the room — halfway hidden by a drape of rich golden fabric — leads into a small antechamber, and he has just a moment to look around as Damian pulls him directly across it and to the opposite side. There’s another door, this one propped open, and once he’s pulled through a blush immediately steals into his cheeks.

It’s a square room, the center of it depressed into a hollow several feet lower, and filled with pillows and rich fabrics and furs. It’s not hard to guess the purpose of it. There are also cushions arranged around the hollow at equally spaced intervals, and he’s pretty sure he knows exactly what those are for too because they look an awful lot like the cushions he’s been sitting on the last two days. He didn’t realize they were going to be quite that close.

Damian moves with purpose, guiding him to the edge of the hollow and then to a halt when they reach it, instead of stepping inside. He stalls, glancing up for direction, and then the matrons reach them. He hears the door shut a moment before hands are tugging at his clothing, stripping the robe off of him with sharp efficiency. He holds back the protest and bites his tongue instead, glancing over to see them doing the same to Damian, although Damian looks much more relaxed about it.

A weathered hand grips his bound wrist, and the ribbon gets picked apart and pulled off of their hands, freeing them. Apparently only long enough for the robes to get dragged down and leave them nude though, because the next moment his arm is being dragged back up and they're being tied together again. Damian doesn't even blink at the treatment, so he really has no choice but to treat it as normal. Treat it as normal and try _not_ to look at Damian too much now that he's all skin and no clothing to cover it.

He fails pretty miserably in that regard, but he also catches Damian looking back, so that's something at least.

His glimpses of Damian's arms didn't lie; the burnished skin is pulled tight over a fair amount of muscle, although it doesn't quite compromise the lean frame they're part of. A few scars disrupt the skin, but not enough that it looks like Damian's ever seen a real battle, or at least not more than one (and not up close unless he's _very_ good). He's got more scars, definitely, but then he's been in a couple of skirmishes. He's come out of it mostly untouched, but almost no one is lucky enough to come out of battle completely untouched.

And then his gaze flickers downwards, and he has to yank it back up. Damian's not hard, yet, but he doesn't think that's going to be the case for long. Especially because Damian's leading him down into the recess, pushing him downwards and encouraging him to lie down amongst the pillows and furs. Which is not bad, honestly, but this is still weird. Weirder still when he makes the mistake of glancing around and the matron's cool, studying gazes become apparent. Things he _never_ needed to think about.

Damian pushes his legs apart with his free hand as he swallows and looks back down, focusing on his new husband so that he doesn't focus on anything else that's distinctly more disturbing. He eases into how Damian slips between his legs; their bound hands resting near his hip as Damian reaches out towards the edge of the pit. He follows the movement for a second, and then catches the edge of a pair of knees and pulls his gaze back to focus on Damian's face. Concentration, and then when his hand does come back it's shiny with what he recognizes as some kind of oil.

That's more familiar.

Damian lowers that hand down between his legs, and he feels the testing brush of fingers against the outside of him before one pushes forward. He closes his eyes, arching his back a tiny bit and strangling back a grunt at the sensation. He's done this before, but usually he's a little more aroused and a little less self-conscious when people start working him open. This is a new one. He breathes out and forces himself to relax, letting his head stay tilted back against the pillows and his back stay that tiny bit arched, to make the angle a little easier. His legs he raises, lightly pressing his knees in on either side of Damian's waist. Then, he tries to focus in on that dull little spark of desire starting to build in his gut. Nothing big, yet, but he can force it.

Later, he can maybe teach Damian more about the finesse of things like this; maybe he's never been with another man before. Or maybe he's actually, secretly, as uncomfortable with the audience as he is and just wants to get this over with as quickly as possible. He's going to guess that the ending 'goal' here is orgasm; definitely for Damian, less likely he's included in that demand. He can't really blame Damian for not wanting to do anything more intimate than a straight fuck with the matrons watching, since he doesn't really want to either.

(He's _not_ going to open his eyes for the rest of this unless it's necessary.)

He focuses on the desire, lets himself become receptive to it and feeds it with thoughts about his past encounters with others, and his own fantasies. It takes some time — the thought of the old women keeps interrupting at the _worst_ moments — but by the time Damian is sliding three fingers inside him with little resistance he's managed to get himself hard and maybe a little bit desperate. That should be enough, if Damian can last longer than a couple minutes and isn't going to like… smack his hand away if he reaches for himself or something.

Damian's fingers slip away from him, and he hears the careful drip of the oil this time, before Damian is sliding a slick hand down to grip his thigh and lifting his hips a couple inches off the pillows. He breathes in, relaxes, and then Damian's pushing at the outside of him and sliding in.

He does groan this time, his back arching again, because Damian is _thick_. He'd need more time, or more recent practice, to take this totally painlessly, and it doesn't look like he's going to get it. Damian is sinking inside of him in one long push, ignoring how he's clenching, ignoring how his free hand has reached blindly upwards to grab at Damian's arm. He manages to graze his fingers over what feels like a wrist, but Damian draws it away a moment later and he has nothing again. He curls his fingers into a fur instead, and shudders a little as he forces himself to relax as much as he can.

Damian bottoms out, hips pressing against him, and he shoves out an exhale and then breathes in much more slowly. Damian doesn't move for a couple good moments, but then he starts to draw out again. Too soon, but he twists his head to one side and just bears it as his new husband slides out and then shoves back in, harder.

He feels the angle change as Damian presses closer to him, and the next draw out drags a gasp from him as Damian rubs against the nerves inside him. The hand on his thigh tightens, adjusting a bit to pull his thigh a little higher, and then there's barely any pause. Damian sets a pace that's fast, hard, and maybe a little outside of his comfort except that Damian is thick enough to be just in the right place almost no matter what he does, so it doesn't matter. He just curls his fingers tight into the fur, grits his teeth against the noises threatening to come up out of his throat, and takes it.

He doesn't have to fake the desire anymore, or try and encourage it. Damian is panting above him; he can feel the slick slide of sweat when he presses his legs in against Damian's waist, and that knowledge is enough to make him shudder and give a less-restrained moan.

Damian echoes it, a little lower, and then gives something almost like a snarl above him and goes a little _harder_. Rough sex isn't usually his sort of thing (but then, normally he's not on the bottom either), but this _is_ kind of nice in a way. It's an interesting feeling to be at someone's mercy, in a way. Not that it's remotely true, but with his eyes closed it feels almost like being taken by some kind of triumphant warrior or something. Taller, bigger, with very little apparent care for what he's getting out of this — even though he _is_ enjoying himself — and one of his hands not being of much use. It's actually sort of fun.

He arches up at a particularly good pulse of pleasure, rocking down against the force of the thrusts, and twisting his fingers further into the fur to get a better grip. His jaw loosens, letting the sounds come free with less interference. He's _jingling_ with every thrust; the jewelry left on his body clinking against itself every time he's jostled by Damian pushing home again. It makes a strange but interesting background to his gasps and moans, and Damian's aggressive grunts and hard breaths.

He can feel Damian jerk a little bit, and comes to the sudden realization that Damian is close to the end of this, and he's not. He's _not_ getting left behind on this one.

His hand comes loose from the fur easily enough, and he reaches down and wraps it blindly around himself instead. He doesn't get his hand smacked away, which is a good start, and Damian doesn't make any particularly unhappy noise down at him so he'll take that as proof that it's fine.

Stroking is an easy, practiced thing, and it's not long at all before he finds himself clinging to Damian with his legs, arching, and then coming all over his stomach and knuckles. He cries out, and Damian is driving into him even harder now, with a ragged edge that he recognizes. Then Damian _slams_ into him hard enough to send a bright spark of pain up his spine — he's still high enough that it actually almost feels good — and tightens the grip on his thigh to be bruising, giving a cry as well. He can feel the spill inside of him, wet and warm in a way that he's not entirely unfamiliar with, but is still a little odd even after his experiences.

Slowly, he opens his eyes, and his gaze drifts — dazed — across the watching matrons before settling on Damian. Still holding him open, breathing deep and hard, with his eyes closed and sweat glistening across his skin. He looks _good_.

Then Damian pulls back, and his legs part again to let him go. He sits back on his heels, eyes opening a sliver to look at him, and then up. He startles badly enough to flinch when the matrons, seemingly as one, rise and head for the exit. He watches, surprised, until the door's closed firmly behind them. Then Damian is moving, lifting their bound hands and picking at it with the fingers of his other hand until it comes loose. He stares, equally surprised, and gets one glance from cool blue eyes before Damian pulls away and stands, moving out of the pit and to the pile of his abandoned clothing.

There's something… off. Something feels off.

He gets up a little slower, wincing at the movement and then the somewhat high step he has to make to actually get up and out of the recessed area. Damian doesn't look at him, even as he goes to the pile of his own clothing and starts reassembling his own look. (He's very tempted to leave a few of the inner layers off, but the thought of how 'rude' that might be if he's found out stops him.)

"You know," he starts, quietly, "you haven't really said more than two words to me."

Damian shrugs into the outermost layer of his robes, and then glances over at him. "I will pretend for the sake of publicity," comes the cool answer, "but do not expect me to do so in private, Richard."

"What?" The word escapes before he can even think about censoring himself, and he blinks as Damian scoffs, eyes narrowing a little.

"This was not your choice, and it was not mine either." Damian steps closer, all but _yanks_ him into his own robe and then seizes his right hand and starts to tie them together again with that length of red ribbon. "You are a _curse_ ," Damian spits at him, as he stares, "and a hobble, and I will not pretend to like you, let alone desire you, when there is not an audience to play to." The ribbon ties, and then Damian drags him close, almost nose to nose, and hisses, "You should have broken the ribbon when you had the opportunity."

He stalls, and then manages to get out, "I— I don't understand."

"Clearly," is spat down at him. "You are a pawn being used in a game of chess beyond your understanding, _Wayne_. I suggest you learn to play before you destroy us both with your fumbling." Damian's eyes narrow, back straightening to maximize those couple of inches between them. "Listen carefully, because I will not repeat this. I am the sole heir to my grandfather's kingdom, _currently_. I have been tied to _you;_ a bastard prince of a foreign kingdom with equal standing to my own, which means I will _never_ have heirs. I have the weakest _possible_ claim I could to my grandfather's throne, as he has ensured.

"My mother has been married to your father, true, but she is still my grandfather's daughter. If she bears an heir, which it is nearly guaranteed she _will_ , I will lose all rights to my grandfather's throne. _You_ will lose all rights to your father's as well by standard law, in the presence of a sanctioned heir."

"Bruce would never let that happen," he starts to argue, and Damian scoffs.

"Do you think my grandfather deals in _possibilities?_ When there is an heir your father is likely to die in some 'accident,' and that child will take over both your kingdom and my own. As the only true _leader_ amongst the family, my grandfather will rule in his place until he reaches adulthood. It is a _simple_ plot, Richard." A sharp click of the tongue, and Damian shoves him back a step with his free hand. "Tying me to you is just a simple assurance that I will not rebel; I have no future as a ruler while I am bound to _you_."

His chest feels tight, but he stands his ground. "None of that is my fault," he says, quietly because otherwise he's going to shout. "I get that you don't like the situation, and I sure as hell don't like it either, but we're stuck together. If he's really planning what you say he is, maybe you could help me _stop_ him. Give yourself another chance; anything. We could… get the marriage annulled because of false pretenses. There's always a way."

"You have no concept of the lengths these things are planned," Damian snaps, dismissive. "I did not tell you any of this so you could attempt some clumsy maneuver to escape your position, only to attempt to make that position clear to you. You are a pawn; acclimate yourself to that role."

Dick's teeth grind together, and he sets his feet a little more firmly. "You could give me a _chance_ instead of just assuming you don't like me. You could give this at least an _hour_ before you write me off as some kind of idiot chess piece with no feelings or designs of my own. You have no idea who I am, Damian. Don't judge me."

"I have no desire to give you a chance." Damian's mouth curls into a sneer, and then the hand tied over his clenches down, hard enough to hurt. "I have no desire to know you, Richard. Do what you will, but I will not help you, and I do not need or desire your help either. What is between us is nothing but words and a bit of string; do not presume to tell me what to do."

Before he can respond Damian is yanking him towards the door, stalking forward and back into the publicity of the main hall. He has just enough time to wipe the anger from his face before they're out, and he bites his tongue to make sure he doesn't continue their argument.

Maybe he can bring Damian around. Maybe he can stop Ra's' apparent plan by warning Bruce, by making sure that exactly what Damian expects doesn't happen. Maybe this will get better.

Then again, maybe it won't.


End file.
